


To Speak in the Language of Flowers

by holdingtorches



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Flowers, George MacKay with flowers is such a soft image ngl, Language of Flowers, Romance, slow burn... ish?, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25712068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingtorches/pseuds/holdingtorches
Summary: What you couldn't tell him in words, you tried to tell him through the flowers.
Relationships: George MacKay/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Gloxinias

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to visualise the flowers or see a glossary of the meanings of the flowers per chapter, click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Glossary for this chapter can be found [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing).

Sunlight streamed through the glass panes of your shop window, basking your flowers in an ethereal glow that made them look more alive. Whispering a soft “Good morning!” to the flowers as you stood in front of the window, you closed your eyes and paused a little to feel the warmth of the sun seep into your somewhat still frozen cheeks. Sunlight was a rare thing in London, especially in February, so it was nothing short of a miracle that the sun was out. You smiled a soft smile before flipping over the ‘Closed’ sign at your door to ‘Open’.

Flowers have always had an incredible range of meaning for everyone, and as a florist based in North London, you’ve seen it all: lovers wooing each other, married couples trying to appease one another, homeowners who want to liven up their households with flowers, and everything else in between. From birthdays, to weddings, to funerals, and even outlandishly romantic schemes set up by lovesick men in (most of the time successful) attempts to get the girl, you were always there with the right kind of flowers to complete the moment.

It’s not so much that you chose the job, if you were to be honest with yourself. More than anything, the job chose you. You were raised by your grandparents, who were the original owners of the quaint flower shop. You learned the tricks of the trade at a young age; your grand-dad taught you how to take care of the flowers and even plant some of them, whilst your nan taught you how to make flower arrangements and balance the books. Most of your teenage years were spent working part-time at the store, serving the loyal clientele that your grandparents had gained over the years. It was a natural development, then, that you took over the store when your grandparents decided that they wanted to spend their long-deserved retirement in the Scottish countryside.

Truth be told, running the shop was all you had ever wanted to do since you were a little girl. You never dreamt of fame, or fortune, or at least even spending your vacations abroad; in fact, the only time you ever went abroad was to go Japan to study ikebana for two weeks, and even then it was still for the business. You got judged a lot for it when you were much younger; many people believed that you didn’t dare to dream more daring dreams for yourself. Often, those people were the same ones who knew next to nothing about what it takes to be a florist. It’s not just about taking flowers and putting what looks good together. Aside from the 15 hour work days mostly spent moving things around and the early rises to compete with other florists in the flower market, being a florist also meant being a translator par excellence.

Flowers, you learnt from your nan at an early age, had a language. The Victorians, long ago, created an entire code created around flowers. Different flowers meant different things, and even then the meaning of one flower could change depending on its colour. This is where your ‘translation’ skills had to come through. Flower arranging, to you, was never something purely about aesthetics; aesthetics had a place, surely, but more often than not, it was understanding what your customers wanted to say and interpreting their message through flowers. You couldn’t help but find it so profound that so many things could be said by something so speechless.

Even if most people don't know what the flowers meant in flower-language, somehow, the people who received your arrangements got the messages you slipped in through the flowers. Your customers never failed to come back to you soon after they gave their flowers away to tell you stories of how your flowers brought out the best in those who received them; apologetic husbands confided in you that their spouses’ hearts would soften after seeing your arrangements of cream-coloured tulips and ivy; smitten lovers would come back to the shop with the people they wooed, introducing you to them and thanking you and your flowers for making their relationships possible; the families who held funerals for their dearly departed would call you and thank you because they somehow felt peace when they saw your blooms, and you knew that it was because of the Balm of Gilead that you put amongst the lilies.

You opened the door to your shop and stood by the doorframe, watching the day unfold in Kentish Town. Aside from the usual hustle and bustle that happens in the North London area, there were only two days left until Valentine’s. The city was suddenly full of affectionate couples and romantic sentiments that demanded vast quantities of flowers. Indeed, this time of year was a stressful one for florists like yourself; you knew that in about half an hour, a steady slew of customers would begin to arrive, buying flowers in advance or placing orders for the big day itself. 

A bright, cheery voice that called out your name interrupted your train of thought. You turned to where the sound came from, and found George waving his hand as he walked towards you. The sight of him smiling couldn’t help but make you smile as well, and you greeted him.

“How are you doing today?” he asked, looking away from you for a moment to look at your displays at the shop window. 

“It’s a busy time this year George,” you replied as you took off your apron, hoping for a moment of normalcy before heading head first into the craziness of Valentines’ season. You were about to say something to add to your answer, only to find George distracted by your shop window.

“God, you always make the best displays…” he said breathlessly, your answer to his question forgotten. His blue eyes admired the bower of peonies and roses that looked like a blush pink cloud floating atop your shop window; the display had an added effect of filling the air with the heady perfume that the blooms had. The cloud of flowers continued into the inside of the shop, as if it crept in through an unseen gap of the shop window, which displayed the different arrangements you offered especially for the holiday. Aside from bouquets, there were heart shaped garlands, single roses wrapped with sprigs of white heather and wax flower, and even those trendy new flower boxes that you saw on the florist blogs that you followed.

You looked at the window with him, trying to see if there was a way you could improve how you presented what you had to offer. Soon, however, other people began to crowd around the window as well, and some even began entering the shop.

“Got to go back, George,” you told him as you put your apron on again, picking up the pace to get back in just before a customer started to look for you. George followed you into the shop and sat by the window, on the small stool that was nestled between the till and the tall buckets of peach-coloured ranunculus blooms.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, and smiled inwardly. Somehow, the peach tones of the flowers seemed to become warmer, deeper, and indeed even _pinker_ , as if flowers themselves were blushing as he studied them. How fitting, you thought, that he would sit by ranunculus flowers. _'You are radiant with your charms'_ , they quietly whispered to George. And indeed, it was a charming and radiant thing to behold, to see George look at all the flowers in wonder, his mouth curving up in a smile as he did so. Looking at him smile and gaze at the flowers, you remembered the fateful night you first met.

It was a wonderfully warm spring night; however, you decided to spend the evening sitting out on your balcony. You never really were one to have a nightlife; the flower markets opened at the same time clubs and bars took last orders, so you spent most of your nights in, reading a good book or doing a bit of cooking. You couldn’t necessarily say, therefore, that your job helped your social life. But the friends who’ve stayed on have been understanding of you, sometimes joining you in your nights in or for Sunday brunch dates when your schedule allowed for it.

That night, however, you were alone. The sky that night had a misty quality to it, through which even the moon struggled to shine through. That night, you decided to tend the little garden you had on your balcony, working mostly on the faint light that you kept on all the way back in your kitchen. Most of it were flowers, definitely, but there were also a host of herbs that you grew in plant boxes in the shade, away from the sunlight. And because you loved citrus so much, you were particularly proud of your miniature sweet satsuma and calamansi trees that you kept in your kitchen when the weather was cold. In fact, you were with them on the balcony to work on pruning their branches when you heard a low snarl cut the silence of the night air, followed by a quick gasp. Concerned, you crawled to the edge of your balcony that faced the street, peering through the wrought iron railing to find where the noise came from.

What you saw below your balcony was a tall, heavy-set man in a dark hoodie, pointing a large kitchen knife at a blonder, lanky one, whose hands were raised as if to prove that he was defenceless.

“Cough up everything you’ve got and don’t get any funny ideas about making a scene,” the man snarled in a gruff voice.

You saw the blond one’s eyes widen slightly, his posture stiffening before taking a deep breath and slowly bringing his arms down.

“Hurry up!” the robber grunted.

You couldn’t just stand there and watch. Looking around for something that you could use to come into his defence, you found a pot of loam by your right hand. You were supposed to use it to transplant the manzano chili pepper seedlings that your friend was supposed to give you, but right now, that would have to wait. Rising quietly so as not to draw attention to yourself, you lifted the clay pot and aimed well away from the both of them, hoping to make a distraction loud enough to give the lean man a chance to run. Hoping against hope that your plan would work, you closed your eyes and let the pot go.

The sharp crash of fire-hardened clay shattering into pieces made you wince. Your eyes flew open as soon as the sound was gone, and you saw that both of them were still standing in place, just caught off-guard by the crash. The robber was still there, which was not what you wanted.

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing ‘ere?” you shouted in your best male Cockney accent. Who knew your knack for impressions would actually come in handy one day? The robber, you could see, was spooked, and turned on his heels and ran for his life, dropping his knife as he escaped. The blond’s eyes were still wide with shock, staring at the knife on the sidewalk before settling his wide eyes on you; he couldn’t believe his luck. You locked eyes with him for a moment before you realised what you had to do. You ran out of your flat and rushed down the stairs to get to him. Throwing the door of your shop open, you quietly gestured to the man, telling him to come in. With one quick stride he was in your shop, and you locked the door and secured the dead bolt. 

You motioned to him to follow you as you walked to the small table just behind the till, where you sat to take your breaks in the afternoons when business was slow. You turned the light on and squinted a little bit, not realising that you were moving in near total darkness until the harsh light blinked on. Without even thinking, you put the kettle on and took some gingernuts from your biscuit jar, placing them on a small plate that you set in front of him.

“Sit, please,” you invited him, and he sat at the table just as you reached for the telephone. You dialled 999 while watching the man who was now sitting at your break-time table. He seemed fine to you, a small smile forming on your lips as he studied the flowers you put at the centre of the table. ‘ _Gloxinias_ ,’ you mused to yourself as he stared at the pot of Mont Blanc variety flowers interspersed with hot pink and blush pink ones. Despite the unflattering light, the flowers were still beautiful.

‘ _So is he…’_ the flowers seemed to say, winking at you as they did. Your eyes widened a bit at the thought. Could it be that you actually liked—

The voice of an operator on the other end interrupted your thoughts, leading you to a quick conversation on what happened and your address as you made a cup of tea. You hooked the phone back and sat across him, giving him the mug of steaming brew.

“Thank you,” he said softly, dipping his gingernuts in the tea before popping one in his mouth and taking a small sip. The tea warmed him; you could tell by how his cheeks became the same colour as the soft pink flowers.

“How are you, after all that?” you asked him, genuinely concerned.

“Much better now, thanks to you,” he replied, smiling as he did so. “I’m George, by the way, George MacKay,” he added as he extended a hand out to you. You shook his warm hand, and for a moment you lost your head in how big his hand was. You told him your name, and he smiled. “Thank God you were there,” he began to say. “If you weren’t I would have definitely lost everything on me, which isn't quite much right now but still….”

“It’s alright,” you assured him as he sipped some tea and nibbled on a gingernut. “It’s not such a good idea to walk by this street at night right now, though; the streetlight’s been busted for two weeks now and the Council hasn’t done anything about it yet.”

“Thank you for the tip! I just moved in near here,” he explained.

There was a quick knock at the shop door that interrupted your conversation, and you rushed to answer it. It was a detective constable who came to respond to your 999 call; behind him was a begloved constable who picked the knife up and placed it into an evidence bag, and another one who seemed to be the police sketch artist. The detective constable who knocked introduced themselves as such, and you led them to where you were sitting with George. After asking the both of you the standard host of questions while the constable scribbled furiously into his notepad, and after the sketch artist making a composite sketch of what the robber looked like, all three left as quickly as they came. 

You locked the door again after wishing the officers a good night, and walked back to George.

“So is this your flower shop?” he asked you as he looked around, observing the buckets of flowers and the florists’ tools that you left on the counter.

“Yes, actually,” you replied, unable to stop yourself from beaming with pride. “It was my grandparents’ actually, but it’s mine now. I live upstairs so it’s not much of a bother to run it.”

“The flowers are lovely,” he sighed. “Especially these ones…,” He leant forward on the table to have a closer look at the trumpet-shaped flowers. “What are they?”

“Gloxinias,” you answered him. As you watched him gaze at the flowers again, something tremendous and life-changing dawned on you. You opened your mouth to say something, but quickly closed it and you bit your tongue back. Christ, you almost said what they meant in the language of flowers; if you did, the awkwardness of it all would have been your death sentence. “Do you want them?”

His eyes widened at the thought, and his lips opened slightly in shock. “I couldn’t, they look far too precious.”

And he was right. While they were considered to be perennial, gloxinias only blossomed once a year. Considering the modern trend, it was highly unlikely for some to even blossom again. Current varieties of gloxinias were bred to make a large number of blooms; this meant that the plant invested its energy more in making beautiful flowers than growing sturdy roots. There was something philosophical in the thought, but it was too late for you in the night to pick it out. All you knew at that moment was that you wanted George to have the flowers, because they suited him… and because of what they meant in the language of flowers.

“I’ve got more of them up,” you said, pointing a finger upwards. It’s not like you were lying; while you didn’t have any more gloxinias in your flat, your grandparents up in Scotland definitely had some more in their gardens. “Take them, George. They suit you,” you told him in an effort to persuade him. ‘ _Of course they suit him,_ ’ you told yourself. ‘ _Especially because of what they mean….’_

You pursed your lips a little, trying to perish the thought from your mind. If your mind dwelt on it further, you knew that your blushing would give something away. You couldn’t have that, not now, not while an opportunity to begin something suddenly presented itself. 

“If you insist, I’ll have them, then,” George replied, and you both smiled at his acceptance of the flowers. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room tolled eleven, and he stood up as he realised the time. “I should be going now,” he said.

“How are you going home?” you asked, standing up as you did so.

“I’ll be walking.”

You stared at him in silence. After what happened nearly an hour ago, he was still willing to walk on the streets? He realised why you stared at him that way, and he laughed. 

“I’ll be fine,” he said as he walked towards the door of your shop in the near-darkness. “My flat is just on the other end of the street. Hopefully there aren’t any more criminals lurking tonight,” he said, and by the faint light, you were able to make out that he winked at you. Thank God the shop was dark enough to shroud the colours of your face; if there was a touch more light, he would have seen your cheeks go as pink as the flowers in his hands.

“Thank you, for everything,” he said. You felt how genuine the gratitude was, and your heart swelled. “For saving me back there, for the tea, the biscuits, the flowers… I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Not at all, George, you’re welcome any time,” you replied. Deep within, though, you chastised yourself. How good will you be at keeping… what you just realised… at bay.

“I’ll take you up on that!” he replied. “But how do you care for these, though?” he asked, referring to the gloxinias.

“Give me your contact details and I’ll send you some tips,” you told him. After a quick exchange of contact details, he was out and off. Watching him walk away from you, you finally let yourself remember what gloxinias meant in the language of flowers.

_‘I loved you the moment I met you’._


	2. Alstroemerias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to visualise the flowers or see a glossary of the meanings of the flowers per chapter, click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing)

It was the sound of an elderly woman telling you that she wanted to buy a bunch of tulips that brought you back to the present. As you readied the customer's invoice, George stood up from the stool he was sitting in, mouthing to you that he had to go as he pointed towards the door. You smiled and waved him farewell, a little bit crestfallen to see him go so soon.   
  
“You like that lad, don’t you?” the old lady told you as she handed you her payment. You raised your eyebrows at her, quietly begging for pardon and a clarification. “Roses suddenly bloomed in your cheeks when you looked at him,” she chuckled.   
  
You felt the heat rise to your face, and the woman laughed. “Young love, what a thing.”

“We’re— I’m not—” you attempted to deny, but the old lady raised an eyebrow at you, forcing you to be honest, even if it meant being honest in silence.

“It’s fine,” she said in a slow whisper as you handed her the red tulips. “We’ll keep that a secret between us. Thank you for the flowers; My husband in heaven would love these. Tulips were always his favourite.” Your eyes perked up as your customer shared that small detail with you. As she said good-bye and exited the store, you were left alone with your thoughts. ‘ _ Love that goes beyond death… _ ’ you mused. ‘ _ What is that like _ ?’

Of course, the mention of love made you immediately think of George. You called yourself out for your default way of thinking, before shaking your head and smiling to yourself. You found yourself looking forward to when he would come back. It’s been a little less than six years since that fateful first meeting. Ever since then, George’s visits were like the sun: they were regular and warmed the room. Even on the days he was clearly in a hurry, he would still pop in to say hello. Sometimes, in the early mornings or the evenings, when the shop was closed, he would come and chat. He picked your brains on just about anything, and would often tell you his stories from the projects he worked on and the red-carpet events he would attend. The stories fascinated you, not so much because of the glitz and glamour of his work, but because of the words he used and the way he’d tell his stories. Whenever he was there, the flowers seemed to sing in absolute delight and a warm tone coloured the room, making everything feel so much more alive and inviting. Every single visit of his felt like a celebration to you and, obviously, you knew why.

Naturally, George would come to your shop to buy flowers on special occasions. Whether it was for his sister’s birthday, Mothers’ Day, or a friend’s stage performance, he would buy flowers from only you. Whenever he did, you always made sure to slip in one flower, just one, one that was your constant message for only him. Nestled in the middle of everything you made for him was a lone gloxinia, whose colour changed depending on the predominant colour of all the other flowers and foliage. The gesture was an ode to the night you met, and a tribute to all the love in your heart that you couldn’t let him know just yet. 

Most of the time, however, there wasn’t even an occasion; he would buy flowers just because he saw a new kind that he had never seen before. Every time that he was there during shop hours, he would boast to his fellow customers of how you were the best florist in all of England, if not the world. Whilst your face grew as pink as —well, Pinks— with humbled embarrassment, he would regale them with vivid descriptions of the arrangements and displays that you would make. The way he painted your work in words fascinated his listeners, who suddenly gained an uncurbed enthusiasm to buy even more flowers from you than they had initially intended. Those same customers encouraged more of their peers to come along, and what was once a quaint florists’ shop soon became the talk of the town in less than a year since you first met. You smiled a soft, amused smile; you always joked to yourself that despite post-Brexit Britain, your business still boomed thanks to George’s free advertising. 

You took a deep breath, grounding your thoughts back to the present. Reflecting on George and all the luminous colours he had given you the past years, you decided, right there and then, to finally tell him the way you felt about him. No more secret messages hidden amongst the flowers; hell, you weren’t even sure if he was able to figure your message out. You were going to spell it out this time, in actual, spoken words, plain and simple and honest. You owed it to him, to tell him you loved him. You wanted to tell him not for yourself, but for him. Yes; you were going to let him know how much you prized him, and how much you took pride in him, and how he meant the world to you. You steeled yourself; after committing to this, there is no going back.

You were going to tell him that you loved him.

* * *

With the season being so hectic, the day didn’t seem long enough. The sun rose on the next day; it was now the 13th of February. You were determined to tell George how you felt, but you opted to wait until Valentine’s Day itself. It made you nervous at first, to think about what you were going to tell George and how you were going to say it. Should you dress up for the occasion or should you just come as you are? Should you find a moment of peace when he visited or should you invite him out for some dinner? Was coffee more appropriate? You asked yourself so many questions, but in time, all the questions and all the nervousness dissipated, and were replaced with daydreams of George feeling the same way about you. Before you knew it, you soon found yourself dancing as you went down the stairs and into the shop.

George was already outside the door, peering in through the glass. As your eyes met his, you stood by the till like a deer in headlights, suddenly realising that he may or may not have seen you dancing. Trying to shake off your shame, you rushed to open the door and greeted him.

“You’re quite the dancer,” he chuckled as you let him in, his breath making wisps of smoke in the cold February air. You winced; so he  _ did _ see you dancing. There goes that cool-headed leverage you thought you had for your confession the day after. He laughed when he saw that your expression soured, but immediately apologised. “Sorry for interrupting you just then,” he said. 

“No, it’s fine,” you said. “I should have gotten up earlier as well. Please, come in from the cold.”

You knew, however, that what you just said was lost on him. His attention was once again stolen by the work you’ve done with the flowers. Your normally cluttered work table, which you kept in the centre of the room so that your customers could see you work, had in its centre an arrangement of roses that stood in a tall vase. His eyes were so drawn to it first that it took some time for him to let his gaze wander and take in what you did with the rest of the room. 

You took it upon yourself the night before to make ready-made bouquets for those who didn’t know what to get and for those who didn’t have the luxury of time to have their orders custom-made. The bouquets sat all around the shop now, with the room covered from wall to wall with flowers, as if the whole shop itself was now a display. The mix of cool and warm undertoned foliage that sat amongst the flowers were meant to make onlookers feel as if they were walking through a field of flowers, and judging by George’s reaction, it certainly seemed like he felt that way.

As he was distracted by the blooms, you took the opportunity to gaze at him. His mouth opened slightly in awe as he did his best to lay his eyes on everything, his lips turning up into an open mouthed smile. The grace with which he turned around slowly to take in what was before him absolutely captivated you, making you just as breathless as he was in that moment, if not more. George really was something to behold he was fascinated. His blue eyes gleamed with wonder, the way that sunlight glimmered on the seas that landlocked lovers yearn to find. Looking at him, you rediscovered that serene thoughtfulness and constant spark of fascination that kindled your affections and set fire to your heart.

Nevertheless, his eyes finally settled on the tub perched on the very stool that he sat on days before. In the tall tub were bouquets of alstroemerias. For a moment, it seemed that the flowers’ pink hue deepened —you realised, then, that all your flowers had the habit of blushing when he so much as looked in their direction— and he turned to you, smiling as he did. 

“What flowers are these?” he asked, picking a bouquet up.

“They’re alstroemerias,” you told him, smiling as you approached him from behind the till. ‘ _ I am devoted to you, _ ’ you thought to yourself, recalling the meaning of the dainty pink and white blooms. 

“I’ve never noticed them before…,” he mused, smiling at the flowers one last time before returning the bouquet to the florists’ bucket he took it from.

“I need your help,” he said, turning to face you. His height forced you to look up at him, and the way he beamed at you reminded you of the way the sunlight fell through the trees. Very much like the sunlight, you started to feel your face —and indeed, even your whole body— warm up as you stayed under his gaze.

“What with?” you asked him, getting your notepad ready. 

“I need three bouquets,” he replied quickly. “One’s for my mum, one’s for my sister.”

You jotted down his commission, but stopped midway as you wrote sister, leaving but a hastily scrawled  _ sis _ on your paper. He said three bouquets, but he only mentioned two people.

“You said three.”

“Hm?” he asked, his tone telling you that he was kindly asking for a clarification.

“You said three bouquets. For whom is the third one?”

“Oh!” he replied, realising that he forgot to tell you who the third person was. “My girlfriend.”

You ossified where you stood. Girlfriend?  _ Girlfriend? _ George… had a girlfriend? And you found out about her only  _ now _ ? You felt as though the wind was knocked out of your lungs. You watched him smile before you at the mention of a girlfriend — _ his _ girlfriend— and your heart fell, like crumbling, touch-damaged petals falling to the floor.

George had found somebody else.

Trying your best to hold yourself together, if only for a moment, you did your best to continue the conversation. “It’s going to be extra busy today. Will you need them today? And if you do, can it wait?”

“You can’t rush art,” he told you in an assuring tone. You breathed in deep at the compliment. ‘We  _ were supposed to be art _ ,’ you thought, briefly interrupting reality. ‘ _ Why do you think I waited six years before I decided to tell you? _ ’

“Don’t worry too much about them; I’ll need them for tomorrow,” he added. “But can I pick them up around this time?”

You nodded, hoping that your smile didn’t look like a sad one. “I can manage that. I’ll squeeze your order in,” you replied. For a moment, you thought you heard your voice thicken with tears. ‘ _ Oh Lord,’ _ you prayed.  _ ‘Don’t cry yet. You can’t cry yet. You’ll give it all away if you do.’ _

“I’ll see you tomorrow then! Take care!” he said cheerfully as he closed the door shut, the bell by the lintel ringing to tell you that just like that, he was gone. Gone from the shop, and gone from the future you built with him in mind.

You turned around and sat at the table you took your breaks at—the very same one you first sat at with George— and buried your head in your hands. The irony was not lost on you; you were aware that the place you learnt how to rebuild your heart was the same place where your heart began to fall like empires. The tears that almost spilled while you were talking to George threatened again to break their banks, only to be interrupted by the grandfather clock in the corner of the shop that tolled seven in the morning.

You took a deep breath. This —this emotional turmoil and that trial of the third bouquet that lay waiting for you— had to wait. You rose from your chair and stood still, for a moment, doing your best to gather everything far inside. ‘ _ Later will be the time you can feel these things again, I promise, I’ll give you time, _ ’ you promised the part of yourself that just wanted to stop everything and burst into tears at the reminder that there was no way, now, that you could confess to George the day after without seeming like a human of base manners and even baser morals.

Despite how hard you tried to compartmentalise your emotions, however, the thought of George still tugged at your heart, even after you had opened the shop and the customers started pouring in. Since you met him, your mind was conditioned to remember him during stagnant moments, as a reminder of the good things in life, and even during the stressful and demanding times, to feel the tranquility you always felt when you were with him. Now, however, the thought of him brough sharp pangs of pain that would make you wince or even gasp when they hit. You would get worried looks from your customers whenever you did; some would even ask you if you were alright. Of course, you had to lie, nonchalantly saying that your shoes were killing you after standing for most of the day, or that you barely had a proper breakfast and the hunger was beginning to get to you. If you told them the truth, they might never be patrons of your work ever again. After all, how could they trust a florist to make love possible for them when she herself couldn’t even make her own love a reality?

That day felt like an eternity for you. It didn’t help that you extended your shop hours to accommodate last-minute lovers who still tried to do something romantic despite not even having the time to smell the flowers. You even left a sign outside with a link to an online order form, so that people can purchase flowers no matter the time and either pick them up at the store or have a courier send them. That new system allowed you to further busy yourself that day, splitting your time between fixing the order database, working with the customers who entered the shop, and helping them choose flowers for the holiday. Later, in the late afternoon, you began to work on George’s orders for his mum and his sister. When customers saw the first two bouquets you had made for George, they began to ask for the same ones, even if it meant getting them much later on the day of Valentines’ itself. More requests meant more jobs to do, and more jobs were, at that moment, a good thing for you. The work distracted you, and for a moment, you found sanctuary in the routine of your work.

Of course, the compartmentalising came to slap you in the face as the clock chimed nine in the evening. You turned off the lights in the showroom, save for the ones that illuminated your work table, and closed up shop. You took a deep breath. ‘ _ Here it goes _ ,” you whispered to yourself. ‘ _ The flowers for her. _ ’

You found it exceedingly difficult to make an arrangement for  _ her _ ; for George’s sister and his mother, it was easy enough. You had met his entire family before, on one occasion, when George came to the shop with them just to show them how much he loved your flowers and the ‘art’— as he called it— you always made with them. You had a wonderful chat with them, and even ended up giving all of them flowers: gazarias for his father, coral sunset peonies for his mother, gerbera daisies for his sister, and gloxinias —as always— for George.

You covered your mouth with your hand at the memory of that time; you remembered how the warm sunlight raked across the room that one afternoon, and how rich their laughter was, like the sound of thunder that echoed from deep within the forest. The memory stood in stark contrast with the reality you faced; dark was the night, and you were alone in the silence, with not even the thought of George able to keep you company. 

You sighed heavily. As you tried to envision what you could do for this arrangement, you tried to think about this girl he was with. Even then, you struggled. Everything you assumed about her only led you to asking more questions. Did she know how fascinated he was by the hibiscus tea you made that first summer with him, and every summer since? Did she know that George liked to hum as he waited for the chai you made every autumn? Did she notice when he was sad, sometimes, because of the gloom that winter would bring? Did she know what made George laugh even in the spring showers that fell in the London afternoons? Did she see the sunlight that George brought with him wherever he went? Did she know how lucky she was? Did her love make his head spin?

You shook your head; thinking about her and how worthy she must have been compared to you did not serve you in your mission to get George’s order done in time for tomorrow. Determined to finish this project, you decided to change your strategy. You knew that you promised yourself that you wouldn’t send anymore messages through the flowers, but now that being with George was nigh impossible, you seized the opportunity to channel everything you felt for him into this one bouquet, so much so that your words for him would become his own.

Closing your eyes, you chose to imagine the joy that lit up his face the night you met. Reaching for the soft pink gloxinias, your lips curled into a poignant smile as you placed them in near the middle, held in place by some supports and a bit of wire so they wouldn’t fall.  _ Beloved, I loved you the moment I saw you. _ You picked up the plumed celosias, not quite sure where they were supposed to be, but you knew they would fall into place eventually. You decided to place them in the back, because they looked like pink foliage.  _ We became fast friends, and I was content with that. _ You breathed in deep, taking in the deep, heady scent of the bergamot blossoms.  _ I was drawn to you. How could I not be?  _ You placed the fragrant blossoms in as you looked around the table. As you picked up the alstroemerias and the gervase hippeastrums, you were barely able to even think straight, your consciousness threatening to buckle under the weight of your heavy heart.  _ I became devoted to you and your ravishing splendour.  _ The peach pink godetias begged to be picked next, and you gave them a sad smile, remembering what they meant. You placed them in.  _ I was enraptured.  _ You grasped the delicate, white bells of lily of the valley, and you placed them in as well.  _ On the days you were there, I wanted for nothing.  _ You reflexively reached for the Toyo Nishiki quince blossoms soon after.  _ I was wealthier than the richest kings whenever I was with you. _

The ranunculus blooms called to you, and you remembered how they blushed when George looked at them.  _ Through the years I’ve come to know your kind, gentle soul, its radiant glow has warmed mine as well.  _ You gasped as you remembered the alyssums.  _ Your worth, beloved, has always been beyond Beauty. _ Remembering the theme of worth, you ran up to your balcony and plucked some of the achimenes blooms you kept there, to place them in the arrangement.  _ Such worth is rare.  _ Then, you took the faint arbutus blooms in your hands, and placed them gently to fill in the gaps between the larger flowers. ‘ _ Thee only do I love, George _ ’ you thought, the tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. You tried your best to stop them, but they began to stream freely when you picked up the apple blossoms. You desperately wiped the tears away with the back of your hand before placing the cream, pink speckled flowers in the arrangement.  _ Oh, apple of my eye. I prefer you above all _ . Cedar flowers, your instincts told you, belonged there as well, and you added them to the bouquet. You remembered the meaning much later on:  _ I live only for you. _

The bouquet seemed full to bursting now, but you knew that it could take some more flowers. From the other end of the room, you spotted the roses that were the colour of his cheeks whenever you asked him to do impressions. You walked away from the table to pick the blush coloured blooms. Surely he knew what they meant, right?  _ I love you, George. I love you, George. I love you, George. I love you, George. I love you, George.  _ The words became a mantra you whispered to yourself as you dotted the roses throughout the arrangement. Those words were the only words that mattered to you then. Those four words were the only ones that remained true, so true that you wanted to scream those words from the rooftop, every rooftop. If you had to choose to speak only four words, it would be those four, so that even your proudest moments of poesy, those four would be the only ones you said. Those words were your vision in the night and your dreaming in the day. The words shone through you as if your bones were fashioned of glass and your skin was made of paper. You drew a ragged breath as you remembered every hope you had of telling him those words as he lived life beside you, in your own voice, but how could you say them to him now? You were resigned to saying these words in the silence, through the flowers that couldn’t speak on your behalf even if they wanted to.  _ I love you, George. I love you, George. I love you, George. _

The tears were making your vision blurry now; you were barely able to see anything in front of you. The saltwater welling up in your eyes made it difficult for you to do your job of pinching away the pollen and adjusting the flowers, but there was one more flower that had to be there, and you placed it in. This one stood proud and tall in the middle; it was a jonquil, its prominence making it a focal point amidst everything.

_ “Love me, please.” _

You rubbed your hands with a damp towel before dabbing the tears away with the inside of your collar. Stepped back, you looked at the work of your hands. You rarely said this about anything you made, in fear that it would sound self-laudatory, but it  _ had _ to be said this time. 

The bouquet was beyond beautiful.

It looked like white, pink, blush, and cream fireworks tried to paint a sunset, and the effect was dizzying and grand. The balance was perfect, and every single flower shone in its own beauty yet heightened that of everything else’s. 

You fumbled for the switch to the lights and turned them off, calling it a day as you finally let everything within you come apart underneath. Overwhelmed by what you have just made, and the emotional toll it took on you, you sunk to the floor and cried. As you sat there with your knees to your chest and wept, you knew that your words would never reach him; the words this last bouquet spoke were, though yours, were for the person who held the heart of the man you loved the most.

All the flowers in your shop flowers watched on.  _ ‘We’re sorry,’ _ said the bluebells, like a soloist in a choir, its quivering voice cutting through the silence. Speaking in an honest but commiserating tone, the rest of the flowers entered in unison:  _ ‘We sing of a love you cannot have.’ _

You stared at your flowers as they were illuminated by the streetlights, the orange glow robbing them of their hues. The bright, vivid colours that George painted into your life were suddenly gone as well, dulled and diminished by the undeniable reality that he had someone else now. He was unravelling his soul and weaving it in with another’s, and the only place you had in his life was now just being the cornershop florist who sold the best flowers he could give to  _ her. _

You raised your head and stared at the bouquet again.

What face could you possibly show him tomorrow?


	3. Andromedas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to visualise the flowers or see a glossary of the meanings of the flowers per chapter, click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing)

You faced him with a borrowed face the next day.

Perhaps it was because you didn’t sleep a wink the night before, and you didn’t want to either. Every time you tried to sleep, all you could see painted on the backs of your eyelids was the image of George in the arms of another. Your body was convinced that you needed to sleep, but your heart silenced that argument and fought to keep vigil at the wake of your dashed and divided love.

That night was split between failing to sleep, crying, and replaying all the times you spent with George. Outside, a soft shower of rain began to fall. You listened to the steady rhythm that the rain tapped on your window, bringing you back to that one night when he let you peer into the depths of his soul.

* * *

It was about two years ago, on a rainy evening in late November. To be fair, England never has a season where it doesn’t rain, but the somber greys in the skies that day were amplified by the chilly first frost that blew from the North to bite on pedestrian cheeks, signalling the beginning of winter. 

You were already closed for the night, but hadn’t locked the door yet. You had a pot of mulled wine bubbling happily on the electric hob by your break-time table, and the aroma it brought to the room was delightful. The spices, the citrus, and the red wine were simmering and getting to know each other, and you sniffed the air with a delighted look on your face. You sat at your work table that night, sketching out your plans for the holiday display. Holly sprigs and fir branches were an option for you, maybe even some mistletoe to nestle within the evergreen wreaths. While you were in the middle of messaging your traders to have them set some poinsettias aside for you, the bell that hung above your door rang.

You turned to find George, standing by the door as he umbrella and placing it in the umbrella stand at the side. He smiled at you as he placed his coat on the hooks by the wall, and took a seat beside you. He peeked at your sketch with inquisitive eyes, and you felt your heart getting ready to fly.

“How about those white flowers with the red stripes in the middle?” he suggested, and you thought about it.

“Candy cane lillies?” you asked him, and he nodded.

“Those ones! Yeah, I think you had them before in your shop window for the Christmas season. I don’t think it would hurt to have them back. Anyway, they’re always lovely.”

You nodded your head in agreement, adding them to the list. You tried to complete your sketch, but you were displeased with your work, and you pushed your journal away.

“Why’d you stop?” he asked. “That was quite a good one.”

You gave him a small smile, your heart soaring as he praised your work. But the long day was catching up to you, and the weather was draining your imagination away. “I’m tired,” you confessed. “Want some mulled wine?”

Soon, the both of you were sitting at your breaktime-table, sipping mulled wine out of ceramic Glühwein mugs that he brought home for you from the Christmas Market of Place Sainte-Catherine in Brussels.

“Mmhm!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. “Does this have vanilla in it?”

“Vanilla  _ bean _ ,” you told him, wagging your eyebrows at him as you did.

“Posh,” he said in a joking tone, and you grinned. ”Isn’t it a bit early in the year for mulled wine, though?” he asked you, inhaling the scent of the spiced wine before taking another sip.

You gave him a deadpan look. “You know how much I love it, George. It’s the only reason why I become an alcoholic during the Christmas holidays.”

He laughed, but the laugh didn’t touch his eyes. You caught that brief moment of dissonance, and concern began to brew within you as you dwelt on it. You bent your head, puzzled, and his eyes perked up, asking for clarification.

“I know when something’s up, George,” you told him. He put his mug down. Cupping the mug in his hands, he stared at the twist of orange peel that bobbed to the top of his drink. He sighed, and your breath hitched. For a while, you both sat in silence, waiting for him to say something, anything at all.

“It’s just… sometimes I wonder if love will come for me, you know?” he finally said.

“George!” you exclaimed in a shocked tone that startled him, as if he just slapped you in the face. You saw how he slightly leant back in surprise, and you became repentant. “I’m sorry, I overreacted,” you whispered, regretting your inability to hold your reaction down. 

You moved your chair to be beside him, and he smiled a sad smile. “It’s fine, everyone reacts that way when I first tell them.... But I think a lot about if love will come for me again. It’s… it’s been years since the last one, and I’m not one to put myself out the way… most people my age put themselves out there, you know?” 

You held back a smirk and nodded. You knew  _ exactly  _ what he meant: loud, boisterous lads who announce their entrance as soon as they enter a bar ‘to pull some birds in’ and drink themselves to a drunken stupor, ultimately culminating into the pitiful, earthly scene of them retching their guts out at two in the morning all over the white tiles of a kebab shop. How many times have boys like that walked into your store so full of themselves, asking for roses without even wanting to know what their girls’ favourite flowers were?

Bringing you back out of those unsavoury memories, he spoke again. “I know that if my only goal is to be loved, I’ll never achieve it. I know that and yet…,” he trailed off, losing his sentence. 

“I…,” he said, trying to begin again. It pained you to see him so torn up like this. “I’m not saying I  _ need  _ a relationship, or that I’m a terrible person without one. But… we all deserve love, don’t we? Even when we’re not the best we can be, it’s still nice to know that someone… loves you in a way that doesn’t wait for you to be acceptable for them to accept you. God, I really hope I’m making sense,” he muttered, before pausing a bit to recollect his thoughts. “Deep inside, there’s still a part of me that still wants... I want… I want someone I can laugh with. I want someone who I can just be myself with. I want someone who’s willing to slow-dance barefoot with me in the kitchen at one in the morning. Is it wrong to dream of things like that?” he asked, turning to you, his eyes filled with tears.

_ ‘That’s me! That’s always been me! Aren’t I the one you’re looking for?’  _ you wanted to ask, before mentally cursing yourself. That moment was supposed to be about George, and you peeled the question from your mind. 

You sensed the doubt build up inside him, and you knew that you couldn’t let it linger there. “It’s not wrong to want those things. But how could someone not love you George?” you asked him as you took his hand into yours and squeezed it. His eyes widened at the contact, and a lone tear fell on the back of his hand.

“You are the nicest person to ever live in this part of town!” you told him, taking both hands now in an effort to make him accept the praise you crowned him with. As much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t help but recognise how small your hands felt next to his. “You’re insanely talented, and so funny. You have no idea what a joy it is to know you, and talk to you, and be with you. And don’t get me started on how good-looking you are! Michaelangelo beheld a vision of you when he fashioned David!” 

He laughed at the last thing you said —an earnest smile this time— and you wiped the tears from his cheeks before cupping his face in your hands. You looked him in the eyes, diving deep into those ocean blues. “You will be loved, I promise. There will come a day when someone will love you with everything she's got to give. She’ll see the very best in all of you, and share your laughter with you, and watch all your favourite films with you, and… and… and dance with you in your kitchen in the ungodly hours, if that’s something you really want! Someone will love you, George! Just… I think you just have to be patient.” ‘ _ It’ll be me _ ,’ you thought. ‘ _ It’s me. I’ll be the one. Just wait for me. _ ”

He said your name, and his blue eyes softened, his smile finally began to reach their corners. “You think so? You really think so?”

“I promise you,” you replied, your voice sounding more serious than it usually was. “There will be someone who loves you. I know it.”

_ I know it because I already do. _

* * *

You winced at the memory. You were right; there  _ was _ someone who eventually came to love him, but it certainly wasn’t you. How wasn’t it you? How could he share all his hopes and dreams with you and end up in the arms of somebody else? 

‘ _ It’s because you didn’t tell him that you love him sooner, _ ’ you told yourself in a biting tone.

The clock downstairs tolled the eleventh hour and suddenly, in a blinding moment of inspiration, you shot up from your bed. Impulsive, maybe, but an idea seized you. You grasped for your phone in the dark, messaging your traders to ask them if they had certain flowers. The London streets were virtually empty when you stepped out of your flat, and you reached the flower market at New Covent Garden before even the traders arrived. 

“It’s only ten past three in the morning” a man with a Brummie accent said as he identified your huddled figure in the dark. It was Alfie, the trader you almost always got your flowers from. He was one of the main traders who supplied the shop even when your grandparents were still running it, so in a way, he was a grandfather figure to you. You tried to move your lips to form a smile, but you just couldn’t make them move in that way. He motioned to you, telling you to follow him close into the flower market, and you did, relieved for a moment to be out of the February cold.

“You know, I asked myself why you’re looking for these flowers,” he said as he lifted a crate from under his counter. “I told myself, ‘Cor, andromedas? What does she need those for? It’s Valentine’s day, for crying out loud.’” You found yourself staring at the white roses, and you pointed to them wordlessly, asking him through pursed lips and entreating eyes if maybe he could pick some out for you to place with your order. He understood, and he nodded. “That and you never text after nine in the evening, I know you,” he said as he placed the white roses in with the flowers in the crate and handed the wooden box to you. “Some of the flowers you asked for were even off season! But I still ran around everywhere looking for ‘em, because I knew that if you texted that late at night, they must be important.”

The old man looked at you with his wizened eyes, and you realised that he understood. Of course he would; he also spoke the language of the flowers, and sometimes you even compared notes on the different flower dictionaries you had memorised. His teenage granddaughter approached the both of you, pushing in front of her a trolley filled with the rest of your orders for that morning. “Thanks dearie,” he told the much younger girl, replacing her hands on the trolley with his. “I’ll take it from here and you man the till.”

Wordlessly, you followed Alfie out of the flower market and led him to where you parked your van. You helped him load the rest of your orders in silence, but he spoke when you held onto the crate that had the flowers you asked for earlier that morning.

“Those ones are for the lad you always give gloxinias to, aren't they?” he asked you. You cried in response, confirming the guesswork he made earlier in the morning when you gave him the long list of flowers you needed for this one last hurrah. He sighed and took his flat cap off, drawing you in for a grandfatherly hug.

“Things will be alright, love,” he said, doing his best to console you. You stood there and let yourself fall apart for a moment, clutching the flowers that would deliver your final message to George.

* * *

Day broke, and the birds began to sing what was supposed to sound like a cheerful song to welcome the sun that dispelled the long winter night. But after the revelation yesterday, it sounded more like a requiem to your ears. You sat in front of your work table, staring blankly at the bouquet you had just made. For the past few hours since you got back from the flower market, you owed your awake state to coffee and flowers. The caffeine clashed with your lack of sleep in such a way that you were energised, but not alert. In fact, it took a short while for you to realise that someone was knocking at the door of the shop. 

It was George. He was early, just as he said he’d be. You opened the door for him, and he stepped inside. Once again, the sun to your mornings entered the room, but you recognised that it didn’t shine for you. At least, not anymore.

“Happy Valentines!” he greeted you. The words pierced through you; in another life, those words were followed by a warm embrace and a tender peck on the cheek. You stopped yourself from wincing, and you thanked him for greeting you.

“Are you alright?” He asked you, his brow furrowed in concern. “You look… not like yourself.”

“I’m fine, it’s just….”  _ It’s just that I love you but you've found someone else now.  _ “Today is the busiest day of the year and I've been working round the clock to finish all the orders,” you eventually replied. You smiled softly at him and dared to look him in the eyes, but quickly looked away. You knew that if you were to look at him again, your heart would break.

A silence hung in the air, a silence that dared you, for a moment, to just tell him everything and throw all sense of right and wrong out into the wilderness. The side of you which still prized your dignity, however, stopped you before you could even part your lips to speak.

“I’m here for the flowers,” he said eventually, smiling kindly at you he did.

“I’m sorry, by the way, for placing my order in only yesterday,” he called out to you as you walked out back to fetch the bouquets you made the night before. “I’m not usually this forgetful, but I’ve got something special planned today.”

You came back with all three of them in your arms, and again his mouth hung wide as he gazed at what you made.

“This one with the orchids is for your mum,” you told him, placing the bouquet predominantly white bouquet with orchids, milkmaid nasturtiums, and cream-coloured lisianthus flowers on the table. As always, there was a gloxinia in it; this time, it was dolce vita gloxinia right at the very centre. ‘ _ As a thank you to her for raising you so well _ ,’ you thought to yourself. “And this one’s for your sister,” you said, handing him the arrangement with yellow tulips and a Madonna gloxinia that peeked through the daisies. ‘ _ She has my gratitude, for being the one there for you through thick and thin.’  _

He put the yellow bunch of flowers down, and his eyes settled on the last bouquet in your hands. A glimmer shone in his eyes when he saw the pink bouquet, and instinctively he reached for it. 

“Is that…?” he trailed off, unable to even finish his sentence as he found himself captivated by the sight of the third arrangement. You nodded quickly, determined to keep yourself together as he took the bouquet in his arms and looked at it with some much love in his eyes. ‘ _ God, _ ’ you thought. ‘ _ I wish he could look at me like that, too. _ ’

“That’s for your girl,” you answered him softly, the white lie leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. This was the culmination of your efforts; the beautiful words you wove into the flowers were now his, only for them to be given to another. After this, your flowers would work their magic and he’d be so caught up in the trappings of love that he might not even have the time to pop by. You drew a sharp breath at the thought. What if that was the last time that you’d ever see him? ‘ _ Definitely not, _ ’ you answered yourself. But why did it  _ feel  _ like the last time?

You pressed your palm against your cheek, remembering that you were still working. “There’s one more,” you told him. He put the blushing blossoms down and looked at you, clearly confused. You reached for the bouquet you arranged just before he arrived, and his eyes widened as you gave him the bouquet.

Most of the flowers in this final bouquet were a myriad of pastel purples. But it also had flowers that were the colours you found in his eyes, and the arrangement evoked the memory of soft summer skies at dusk. Meanwhile, the white flowers that stayed nestled amongst everything else brought to mind the soft, wispy clouds that refused to go down until the sun did. 

His face lit up as he studied the final bouquet in his hands, as if you had just given him the Crown Jewels of England. He opened his mouth, as if to say something along the lines of not being able to accept it, but you cut him off before he could speak. 

“This one’s on the house. For you. As a thank you… for supporting my business,” you stuttered, your eloquence slipping away from you as an epiphany grasped at the edges of your consciousness, a realisation that after today, nothing would be the same.

“Oh my goodness!” he exclaimed. “They’re all lovely but… how will I bring these home?” he laughed. For a moment, you did too, forgetting the sadness that gnawed at your heart.

“Would you... like me to help you bring them home?” you offered without even thinking. “I mean, since you just live around the corner?”

“Are you sure?” he asked you.

‘ _ No, _ ’ you wanted to say. ‘ _ If I stay with you now, sorrow will find me. _ ’ 

Quashing your better judgement, you said yes. “Of course,” you assured him. “I haven't opened yet anyway.”

You soon found yourself outside of the shop, holding onto the bouquets for George’s mum and sister. You set them down on the bench in front of the shop window as you locked the door. You both walked to the other end of the street, and it dawned on you that it was the first time you were ever with George beyond the shop. ‘ _ And the last time, _ ’ the defeatist within you remarked in a caustic tone. You tried to not listen to that vitriol-filled remark; it had a time and place to be heard, and that moment was not it.

After struggling to keep up with his long legs, you reached the far corner of the street. George went up the stairs to his house and opened the door, putting a finger to his lips as he let you in and led you to the tall closet where a bunch of coats hung on hooks. He carefully placed the bouquets he carried by the floor there, and you recognised what a perfect spot it was to hide the flowers and keep them a secret, if only for a while. You followed suit, and crept back slowly to the door when the deed was done.

George whispered a hushed “Thank you,” and waved a quick goodbye to you, just as a voice you didn’t recognise called out to him from inside the house. As you headed back out, you caught a fleeting glance of the girl, just as he kissed her on the cheek with so much tenderness—the same tenderness you always imagined sharing with George. She giggled as George nuzzled his nose into her neck. You stood by the edge of the stairs, now, and you gasped a low gasp of pain; her laugh was perfect, nothing like your awkward guffaws of glee.

That was her. That was his girl.

As your feet touched the sidewalk again, the door closed shut behind you, as if to say that you cannot go further. As if to say that there was no place for you there in George’s life.

You made your way back to the shop, trying your best to move briskly so that you wouldn’t be caught having a breakdown in public. Your nightmares of George with another woman now had a face to them, and it didn’t help that she was beautiful. That brief encounter with her —even if you weren’t able to actually interact— made you see why George chose her and why she was worthy of his love. She was beautiful, and radiant, and lovely, and every single good thing you knew you weren’t and could never be. You sighed, wanting to be taken back to the night you first met George, when you felt like you had all of him. Now, however, it was so clear to you that you had none of him— and worse, that he was never even yours to begin with, especially because he now belonged to someone else.

You were midway through the distance going back when George called after you, his voice echoing through the still sleepy street. “Wait!” he said loudly, his plea cutting through your self-deprecating soliloquy. You spun around, and for a moment, hope swelled up inside you again. It was irresponsible and reprehensible of you to let your hopes up like that, definitely, but you allowed yourself to be selfish, even if it was only for a split second. Just when you thought everything was said and done, perhaps he was going to tell you that he loved you all this time? ‘ _ No, _ ’ you scolded yourself, your rationality kicking in. ‘ _ He’s not like that. He’s better than that, I know he is. _ ’ So what was he going to say? You stopped where you stood, shivering in anticipation as he walked up to you. When he reached you, he looked you straight in the eye. 

“I forgot to pay you for the flowers,” he said. “How much? Same as always, right?”

Speechless, you nodded. Just when you were walking away from the love you fervently prayed for and from the only man you’ve wished for every night without fail for the last six years, the same man came back running to you… just to pay you? Part of you wondered if this was Fate sneering at you, making a cruel joke at your expense just to drive the final nail on the coffin of your star-crossed love.

George thanked you again, and waved goodbye as he ran back to his house. As you shoved the money into your pockets and watched him walk out of your life again, you finally let your scalding emotions topple you over like a riptide. Every single flower you put in that parting gift to George started coming back to you, their faint scents clinging onto the breeze that blew down the street.

You sighed deeply as you opened the shop. You would have cried if you could, but all the tears you had to cry had already been cried hours before. Thankfully, no one was waiting there yet, and it was early still, giving you more time to spend alone with your thoughts. You slumped down behind the till, so no one would see you, and let the sadness wash over you.

The scent of the flowers lingered in the shop, bringing you back earlier that morning when you made that last gift for George. You remembered the fragile, paper-thin petals of the double white moss roses.  _ I have something to confess. _ You reached for the velvety, trumpet shaped gloxinias that were the colour of oceans deep, like his eyes.  _ I loved you first. It was love at first sight for me. Maybe you already know.  _ Putting the Queen Anne’s Lace in, you were fully aware of what they meant.  _ Heaven was a place I knew whenever you were with me.  _ The bachelor’s buttons came next;  _ I had hoped that you would love me, George.  _ You placed the rose leaves amongst the rest of the flowers, just to accentuate the meaning of the bachelor’s buttons.  _ I hoped against Hope, I really did. _ You reached for the gardenia blooms, placing them by the gloxinias.  _ I kept this love a secret all this time.  _ Reaching for the shepherd's purse flowers next, you smiled at its small, delicate petals. _ For the longest time, I poured all of me out for you, as a libation. _ For a moment, you were lost in the purple and white swirls on the striped carnations’ petals.  _ But I can’t be with you _ , they sighed as they found their place beside the campanulas.  _ And I have to accept that. _

You remembered the sigh you made as you put the andromedas in on both sides. ‘ _ Here it is, then, my self-sacrifice _ ,’ they said, the stems of bell-shaped blooms bending over backwards to form an arch over everything else. You closed your eyes and summoned the Turquoise Lagoon sweet peas in your memory.  _ I have to say goodbye to the idea that we could ever be together.  _ The eglantines and purple hyacinths stood out clearly in your mind.  _ I’ll gather this sorrow far inside; it hurts, but I’m hurting myself now so that maybe I can heal someday.  _ You laughed inwardly as you recalled how the message took a sharp turn when you intertwined the forget-me-nots’ small stems with the much taller rosemary blooms.  _ But who am I kidding? You’ll always live in my memory.  _ The sky blue astilbe flowers followed, only proving that hope was, indeed, quite a stubborn thing.  _ I know that I’ll still be holding a torch out for you. _

_ ‘Maybe one day the home I’ve built with you in mind will finally let me go, _ ’ you recalled the white butterfly weeds wondering as you added them to the bouquet. You remember taking the white roses you got from Alfie and smiling sadly before you placed them in.  _ But until then, I love you.  _ The globe amaranths dared to speak: ‘ _ I’ve never stopped. I know I never will.’ _ You smelled the orange blossoms, and let them join the rest after much hesitation.  _ So that’s it, then. I love you.  _ The volkamenias chimed in with their well-wishes _.  _ ‘ _ I hope life always gives you joy, _ ’. To finish it all off, you placed the baby’s breath and the cyclamens in, the small blooms filling in the spaces between the larger flowers. __

_ I love you, George. I love you always. Goodbye. _


	4. Lilacs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to visualise the flowers or see a glossary of the meanings of the flowers per chapter, click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing)

Soon the Valentine’s season blew over, and life went back to normal. 

Normal, but not quite the same. It wasn’t because  _ he  _ hurt you; George could never do anything to hurt you on purpose. No, you knew that this time around, as always, you had only yourself to blame for building the tall home of all your deepest hopes on shaky ground. Ever since that heart-breaking Valentine’s day, the hours lumped into days and the days lumped into indiscernible lengths of time. There were days when hunger did not visit you, and there were nights when sleep did not come to close your eyes. When sleep did come for you, it ferried you to the caverns of loss that that day had wrought within you. In your dreams, you would steal into these caves and call out his name; the depths then echoed your calls back to you, with a tinge of infinite pain and endless longing, until you awoke in the dark, sobbing, with nothing but his name on your lips. 

Whilst everything was coming all apart inside you, you did your best to soldier on and keep the shop running. Thankfully, despite the end of the season, business was still good. The weather had traded its winter chill in for the mellow warmth of spring, and the numerous spring weddings that year demanded tall, grand, yet somewhat rustic arrangements in the style of the Dutch Masters. As you fit trite conversation with your customers into the hard work of fulfilling your orders, all you had to show for yourself was a borrowed smile. Even if you had stopped seeing Beauty in the world, the people who came to you still needed to see it, and you were there to give it to them through your flowers.

But even the flowers weren’t the same. They were still beautiful, and they still said the same things: ‘ _ I love you,’ _ ; ‘ _ You are radiant with your charms, _ ’;  _ You’ll always be beautiful in my eyes _ ’... but they had stopped saying their messages the way they used to. They used to proudly declare what they had to say, but now they spoke in hushed tones, as if they were tiptoeing around you so as not to remind you that love is a reality that was not yours.

Since that Valentine’s day, George had stopped passing by your shop. It worried you the first few weeks, and you lay restless in your bed the first time you realised it. Could it be that he had finally figured out the meanings you wove into the flowers? You sat up at the thought, mortified at the thought that maybe your final gift to him had sown discord into his relationship. When you remembered what he told you a month ago —that he was flying off to America for principal shooting two weeks after Valentine’s, and that he was to stay there for a month and a half— a sense of relief washed over you, quickly followed by the looming, ever-present reality of him not being with you.

Answered for as he was, you still missed seeing the soft sunshine that would rake through the room whenever George would smile. You missed seeing the flowers blush whenever he walked into the room. You missed the way his cologne mingled with the scent of petrichor. You missed the sound of his laughter whenever you tried to crack a joke. Every single thing about him had tread so deeply in you that every single thing reminded you of him. You couldn’t deny that even if you were the one who closed the door on everything you’ve dreamt of, you still longed for George. Hope was a pesky thing; though you tried to purge yourself of it, it clung to you, diminished but not dispelled. 

The month and a half that he spent away had passed, and yet he still remained awfully distant. You still saw him around —it was difficult not to, because you lived on the same street— but he didn’t pass by your shop anymore. No more early morning chats about the weather, no more afternoon visits for tea, not even late-night texts about how to take care of his house plants. Whenever he passed by your shop, he always walked on the sidewalk opposite your building. Was it just a coincidence, or was it on purpose? You never really knew.

But perhaps, you thought, it was for the better. This was the distance you had to take now; any farther from him, and your life would spiral out of its ordered orbit; any farther, and you would fall, without fail, like the empires of old.

* * *

The spring got away from you, giving way to the London summers you had learned to accept. The heat had the wonderful effect of lifting the scent of your flowers into the summer breeze, bringing in more people as it reached the farther corners of the neighbourhood. ‘ _ Possibly the flowers on the breeze could reach even him…, _ ’ you mused as you fixed your display of Arizona sun gaillardias, daisies, and lavender.

It was that summer when something peculiar happened. The reality of losing George was finally starting to settle into the corners of your mind when all of a sudden, something strange began to happen outside your shop.

Every Wednesday, without exception —save for the last time— there were flowers waiting for you outside your shop.

It all began one morning as you opened the shop. The morning was just like any other London summer morning, until you noticed a flower on the bench outside your shop. At first, you thought nothing of it, thinking that it was a flower that had gone astray from your display. At least, that was what you thought until you realised that you didn’t have tulips in your display that season. You picked up the flower, only to find a note addressed to you, attached to its stem with a bit of twine. You darted back into your shop so you could make an unbridled reaction, your fingers trembling as you opened the note by your break-time table. ‘ _ Variegated Tulips,’ _ the note said, written in a somewhat legible hand. It was signed off with what seemed to be an ‘ _ S _ ’. 

You tucked the note away in a safe place before making yourself a cup of tea to calm yourself down. You had so many questions on your mind: _ Who was this mysterious sender? Why was he sending you flowers? And why did he have to say what kind of flower it was? Unless _ —

Your posture stiffened with a jolt, cup of tea in hand forgotten as you realised something stupefying. You inhaled sharply through your teeth as the hot liquid hit your hand, and you rushed to the sink to cool the scalding feeling. As you ran your hand under the cold water to calm the angry, reddened skin, only one thought was on your mind.

You were dealing with a man who knew the language of flowers.

Of course, you knew what variegated tulips meant; after all, they were one of the first flowers you would give to swooning swains who tried to woo the women in their lives. But just to be sure, you dried your hands thoroughly and reached for the old flower dictionary you kept in a shelf under the till, flipping its weathered pages until you found the entry you were looking for.

“ _ Tulip (variegated)  _ _ · · · · · Beautiful eyes; Enchantment; ‘You enchant me.’ _

You covered your mouth at the thought. This sender was  —you didn’t dare use the word ‘admiring’—  _ describing  _ your eyes, telling you that your eyes were beautiful… and maybe even that they enchanted him? You sat at the table, absolutely stilled into a shock until the bell above your door sounded, interrupting your contemplation as it signalled the coming of a customer.

For the first time in months since that Valentine’s day, the thought of something other than George’s absence filled your mind. The thought of losing George suddenly found itself in fierce competition with the idea of an audacious, artful mystery sender who knew how to speak the only other language you were fluent in. The notion of receiving flowers from someone you didn’t know was something completely alien to you. Indeed, as someone who sold flowers, you always knew who blooms came from even if they were sent ‘anonymously’ to their recipients, and the thought of receiving a gift from an unknown entity in that way was something you always saw in films and never expected to actually happen to you.

Still, you felt as though perhaps this new character in your life was only toying with you and your affections, and you thought to quell it before it went any further. As you went through your day, you realised that you had to respond. Eventually, you found yourself smirking to yourself as you found the best reply, laughing inwardly as you messaged your traders to ask if they could get you what you needed.

The following morning, just before you opened, you left a small branch of rowan on the bench, leaving —just as he did— a note threaded onto a bit of twine to tie it all together. ‘ _ Rowan (mountain ash) _ ’ the note read in your neat, cursive penmanship. You caught yourself giggling to yourself as you walked back into your shop, still thinking of the reply you had just sent. Rowan was considered to be a cure to enchantments; perhaps this was the remedy to the ‘magic’ he claimed your eyes cast on him.

So it came as a shock to you, then, when a single flower waited for you on the bench the Wednesday after. It was a canna lily, its long, slender stalk almost taking up the length of the entire bench. Again, there was a note attached, and you brought the crimson flower into your shop. The note on it was the same as the one that came before it, just the name of the flower and that signature which really started to look more and more like an ‘ _ S _ ’ to you. 

‘ _ Canna lily…’ _ you thought to yourself. ‘ _... ‘your beauty is magnificent, hm?’’ _ . For a moment your cheeks dared to go as red as the flower in your hands, and it seemed as even the warm tones in the blooms around you spiked as well as they joined you in that slight blush that rose to your cheeks. 

It took you a while to remember that you were still set on shooing the sender away, which you tried to do by leaving a snapdragon on the green bench. ‘ _ No!’ _ you hoped that the flower would say; it was a very forbidding reply, surely, but you felt as though you had to go there just to get your message across. You weren’t quite ready to embark on a new journey towards love, mostly because part of you still held George as your superlative.

But when the following Wednesday came, you found a bouquet of crabapple blossoms for you, this time leaning against the door of your shop. You picked them up and took in their sweet smell, remembering their meaning: ‘ _ I’ll overcome your crabbiness _ , _ my sweet, just you wait. _ ’ 

For that week, you decided not to send anything; maybe,  _ just maybe _ , if you didn’t reply anymore, he would stop replying as well. But the plan failed to work. The following week, a flowering cactus beamed up at you on the windowsill of your display window, its bright pink blossoms shyly peeking from its tiny prickles.

You looked at it with wide eyes as you picked up the clay pot and placed it on the counter just by the till. Stepping back, you stared at the plant and its pink flowers, clearly knowing what they meant and yet not quite able to accept their message. You knew the way to put an end to this enigma, and you knew the way was easy: all you had to do was lay in wait for him to leave the flowers in the dead of night or in the early mornings or whenever it was that he placed them near your shop. But part of you also saw that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , this was the flavour your life was missing: the flavour of something new, something exciting, something alive.

Suddenly, a voice that said “Hello!” interrupted your train of thought. Turning around, you saw the old woman who had bought tulips for her husband last February. You smiled at her, and she regaled you with stories and pictures of her granddaughter, who was graduating from university later that day.

“So, how are you and that boy?” she asked you as you tied together a quick assortment of myrtle, roses, and laurel leaves. You turned to her and found wide eyes that glimmered with eagerness, eyes that wanted to know if there was a Valentine’s romance that had blossomed between the two of you. You replied with a small shake of your head, and she understood.

“But I’ve been receiving flowers,” you volunteered, and her eyebrows shot up, very much the way yours did much earlier. 

“Is that so?” she asked, the curiosity peaking in her voice.

“Every Wednesday,” you replied as you led her to the till. “It’s the strangest thing.”

“An admirer, perhaps?” she asked as she handed you her payment.

You shrugged. To be honest, you didn’t know exactly  _ what  _ he was, and most of you refused to know. You knew you weren’t quite ready to explore a brave new world and leave behind that homely place in your mind that you had dedicated to George. But the possibilities that this mysterious sender presented to you were enticing, indeed, tempting enough to maybe go out again and see Beauty in the world….

“What’s worse is that he knows what the flowers mean,” you added as you handed her the bouquet.

“It’s Wednesday today, isn’t it?” the old lady asked, and you nodded. “So what did he give you today?”

You gave a pointed glance at the cactus, and she studied it with a confused expression.

“What an odd thing to give you,” she mused. “What does it mean?”

You told her, and she smiled at you with excitement as you accompanied her to her waiting daughter outside the shop. The answer lingered in your mind even as you watched them speed off in a cab, and long after the day was done. 

‘ _ I know I’ll grow even if you don’t water me. You’ll let me feel the rain someday, _ ” the cactus seemed to say as you brought it up to your flat and into your balcony.

‘ _ I’ll endure _ .  _ I will go on loving you. _ ’

* * *

And for a while, that was how things sorted out. The mystery sender would send you messages through the flowers, and you would try to reply back with your own trite messages that tried to show how doubtful you were. Even then, he wouldn’t stop sending you messages that praised the sunbeams he saw in your eyes, the warmth he found in your smile, and the beauty he admired in you.

One Thursday, after the scarlet lychnis flowers, you decided that you had enough of the compliments. You left an orange narcissus on the bench this time, the note that came with it bearing a question. ‘ _ Is it all about looks? _ ’ you asked him. You wanted to know if all of this was just superficial. If it was, you intended to put an end to it all.

It surprised you, then, when you saw his reply. On the window sill, where the cactus once was, sat a bouquet with pear blossoms, mignonettes, and an Otto’s Thrill dinnerplate dahlia that was almost as big as your head. You gasped as you recognised the flowers; you knew  _ exactly _ what they meant. The heart that you thought was too broken to beat again swelled by the tiniest bit when you recognised what he tried to say.

‘ _ You’re more than  _ just _ lovely, _ ’ the pear blossoms whispered. 

‘ _ Your qualities are worth more than your charms, _ ’ the mignonettes added. 

‘ _ Your worth lies in your strength within, _ ’ the dahlia said, ending the message.

At that point, you were stunned. All you could say was thank you, and that was what you continued to say with each and every flower he sent after that day. 

‘ _ Could this be the beginning of love?’  _ he asked one day, through the lilacs he sent. 

Could it? Since you opened yourself up to the messages from your mystery sender, you couldn’t deny how much better you felt about life. You woke up every Wednesday like a child on Christmas, hurriedly running down your stairs to see just what was in store for you. On the other days of the week, you felt like you were floating on air, and even your customers would comment on how you were more cheerful than normal.

In fact —and you hated yourself for admitting this— there were days when you didn’t even remember George anymore. Sometimes, the pain still surged, definitely; it came back whenever you passed by his corner of the street, or whenever you nibbled on gingernuts for tea. However, here at last was someone who was eager to win you over. It felt so  _ unlike _ you to not remember George, and yet it seems as though you were starting to become a new person because of this mystery man and his messages.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. But before you caught yourself, you found yourself ruching up your stairs to take one of the lady’s slipper orchids you grew in your balcony. “ _ You’ll have to win me over _ .” 

A response came a day —not the usual week— after you had left those flowers on the bench. It was early in the morning, and though the shop was open, you took a short trip to the washroom. When you came back, you found a bouquet waiting for you on your workbench. You approached flowers to give them a closer look, realising that you missed the mystery man only by a moment. In the small bouquet were pale white violets, nutmeg-scented geraniums, and pastel-toned viscarias. The note contained the things it always did: the flowers’ names, the signature that you had accepted to be an S… but there was a rather peculiar addition to the written message.

The note said “ _ Next Friday. 8 PM, _ ” as well as the name of a quaint yet trendy restaurant that was around the area. The owner was your friend, and you called her to ask what she knew about the details the mystery sender had given you. She was a smart one, of course, and she laughed at your question, telling you that it was a surprise before she hung up on you to cut you off.

You glanced at the flowers, then the note, then the flowers again as the message started to sink in.

“ _ Let’s take a chance on happiness. Will you dance with me? Hope to see you there. _ ”

The need to meet him suddenly seized you. As you stared at the invitation, you admitted how important it was to put a face to the dreams and a name to the man. It dawned on you how your predicament was somewhat similar to Psyche, of the Ancient Greek mythos. For weeks now, your suitor had been mystery-clad and without form, and you were determined to make him see that you sought him past the accidents of sight and attraction. Yet in your case, the story of old had been changed: it was now Eros who came to his Psyche, asking her to behold him in the light.

Now, there was only one thing left to do. Smiling as you did, you left a dianthus flower on the bench.

‘ _ Yes. _ ’


	5. Ambrosias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to visualise the flowers or see a glossary of the meanings of the flowers per chapter, click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G0bBpMNDUZ-LdVmP6QZG5xGVHei-_nGc/view?usp=sharing)

Before you knew it, the day had come. You stood in front of your friend’s restaurant, trying to peer into the glass to see what was in store for you inside. But the lights were dimmed down, so dim that what you saw instead was your own face, illuminated by the neon lights at happy hour that gleamed along the street. You stared at your own reflection for a while, feeling foreign to your own self as you looked at yourself in that dress you bought for the occasion. The unusual feeling evoked by seeing your image in the glass led you to think that after this… meeting, or whatever it was, a part of you would be put to rest. 

An impulse seized you to turn and run from everything that night. As much as you tried to ease your heart’s grip around him, part of you knew that you couldn’t. No one could ever equate to George; how can someone be equal to the best? So what if you end up an old maid with a flower shop? So what if you spent the rest of your life pining for the one person who could never be yours? The idea that took hold of you whispered honeyed words in your ear, saying that it was better to have nothing than to not have the best.

The better side of you quashed that thought. You nodded to yourself, sustaining the notion that you were allowed to be happy too. Love was a choice, wasn’t it? Just because you didn’t get the man of your dreams didn’t necessarily mean that your dreams of being loved and loving someone in return couldn’t come true. If anything, you just had to open yourself to the opportunities that presented themselves, including this one that lay just beyond the door.

The last of the summer breezes blew hard, as if it was telling you to get on with it and enter the restaurant. The sign said ‘Closed’, but you knew that it wasn’t; squinting now, you were able to make out two silhouettes in the dark, backlit by the light-up liquor shelves by the bar. Against the soft amber light, you were able to make out the silhouette of your friend waving at you ecstatically, her long, curly hair bobbing up and down as she did so. But the other silhouette —who must have been the man— was as always, shrouded in mystery.

You sighed deeply, trying to draw courage from somewhere deep within. As you reached for the door’s handle, you reminded yourself that once you took that first step, you would be faced with a world far removed from that which you had grown accustomed to for the past six years. Absurd as it was to you, it seemed that there was now an actual reality in which you were loved, a reality that was waiting for you through the other side of the glass. There was no more George waiting for you, and that first step would signify you recognising that reality.

You opened the door and stepped inside. Suddenly, all the lights came on in a flash. You squeezed your eyes shut, blinded by the light. You opened your eyes, first seeing your friend. She pointed to the left side of the room, as if to say that the main attraction was that way, before pressing the button that let the curtains down. Quickly, she scurried off to give you and the man some privacy. A soft, slow ballad began to play, and you turned your head in the direction of the man, who now had his hand extended towards you to ask you for a dance. You gasped.

It was George.

Trembling now, you met him in the middle of the wooden floor. You couldn’t believe it; George was the mystery man all along? After months of begging —sometimes forcing— yourself to abandon the idea of him and failing to do so, Fate decided to bring him back to you? Was there a meaning of all of this? You didn’t know, and barely even dwelled on the question as you slipped your hand into his. 

His hand cradled your waist; the other one found your hand as he held you closer to him, and you both started to sway softly to the beat. You tried to find something, anything to say, but you couldn’t. You were still so overwhelmed by the fact that George was there, and that  _ he _ was the mysterious sender you were looking for all this time. You looked up at him, only to find him smiling warmly at you. Lost in his eyes, all the thoughts running in your mind were brought to a standstill. You didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry for all this pomp,” he said as he danced with you. “I had a feeling that this was the only way you would take the shot.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. He was absolutely right, though; if he had shown up at the shop without warning, you would have closed up for the day and shooed him away whilst on the verge of tears, making up some lame excuse why you couldn’t see him. 

That moment, however, was definitely different. You didn’t know if it was because he had built up to it, or because his arm was wrapped around you as you danced, but you didn’t feel the urge to turn back and run. Though it wasn’t something you expected, it was something that felt right, and you knew you had to stay.

“So, um,” he said, breaking the silence. “If it isn’t obvious, I was the one who sent the flowers.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend, George?” you asked him, slightly confused.

He shook his head, and you saw the pain flickering behind his eyes. “We… broke up.”

Your hand ripped itself from his and flew to your mouth, and you both stopped dancing for a moment. Looking down to the floor, you stared sheepishly at your shoes as you regretted even bringing up the topic in the first place. But he reached out to take the hand over your lips, lacing his fingers with your own again before his free hand lifted your head up so you could look him in the eye again. He smiled at you, and you saw the pain dissipate as he started to dance with you again.

“Anyway,” he began. “ I was the one who gave you all those flowers. I hope you’ll forgive me for buying from a florist who wasn’t you. Couldn’t give the game away,” he said, chuckling at the last sentence he spoke. It was obvious to you now that it was him, but even then the sheer dissonance of it all made you so doubtful.

“You... you were the one who gave me all those flowers?” you asked, just to be sure that you heard him correctly.

“Yes!”

“Really?”you looked at him incredulously, still unable to believe it all.

“Yes,” he said, his tone having a slightly more serious quality. “I signed it all the time with a G!”

“What? That was a G?” you exclaimed. “Your G looks like an S!”

He laughed, and for a while, both of you continued to dance on the polished wooden floor of the restaurant. But with every glide and every turn, the anxiety that had bubbled up inside you moments before had turned into a parching sense of curiosity. 

“Why did you send them, then?” you asked him, breaking the silence again as your curiosity got the best of you. George smiled a soft smile before spinning you to the edge of the room, where there was a table for two already set out and waiting. He picked up a bouquet that lay near the middle of the table and handed it to you, before pulling your chair out to let you sit first. You sat with the bouquet of flowers in your lap, still not sure where this was going, given that you were yet to receive a reply. He sat down in front of you, and your friend emerged from nowhere, pouring you both a glass of champagne before returning to her hiding spot. He smiled at you, but his smile did nothing to answer your question.

Finally, George beamed at you. “I’ve been paying attention to the flowers I've gotten from you,” he said, and your eyes widened at him. Did he figure out the secret message that the gloxinias held onto? Well, it was high time that he did; six years of the same flower in every arrangement was no mere accident.

“My nan loves flowers,” he continued, and you paid closer attention to what he said. “She says there’s a language to them. I always tell her about your work; I even take photos of everything you make for me because they’re all so beautiful, just like you,” He beamed at you, and your face warmed up under his smile. You weren’t sure if you were turning red because he complimented your work or because he said you were beautiful. Either way, old news as it was that he admired your arrangements, you felt a tinge of pride swell up inside you as you imagined him cooing over your work and taking as many photos as he could. 

“And I always sent her photos of the flowers,” he continued. “In the beginning my nan thought that you were a clumsy florist; she thought that you knew how to speak the language of the flowers, definitely, but always had a stray flower in your arrangements that was completely different from the main message. She said that it was always the same one, but wouldn’t tell me which flower.

“My ex… she broke up with me whilst I was in America. I was in a really bad place because of it, and at some point I ended up looking at all the photos I had with her. We had a photo where it was her, my mum, my sister, and me, all holding the bouquets you made. That’s when I noticed what my nan was talking about; somewhere, in those four bouquets, there was a gloxinia in each one. I knew it was a gloxinia because the plant you gave me all those years is still alive.”

A surprised expression washed over your face, amused by his green thumb. Who knew that he could make even the current varieties of gloxinias perennial? You smiled softly, remembering the blushing trumpet-shaped flowers you gave him all those years ago. For years now, they —along with every other gloxinia you gave him— had been trying to tell George that you loved him since you first saw him, whispering in their own quiet way. Had they finally worked their charms this time?

“Well, I pored over all the photos of what you had given me over the years, and every time, there was a gloxinia,” George said, going on. “So I called up my nan to ask if I was right. She asked me if you had given anything since we last talked, and it turns out that I hadn’t sent her the last four you made. So I sent her the photos I had, and a few minutes after I did she called me. 

“When she saw the third one you made for… my girlfriend at the time and the one you made for me, she said, ‘You know what, George, that pink bouquet wasn’t meant for that woman; it was meant for you as well.’ She didn’t say much after that. All she said was that her heart broke when she saw the last two bouquets, and that she finally understood everything. But she didn’t tell me how she finally understood, or why her heart broke when she did. She said that I had to find out the meanings of the flowers for myself.

“So whilst I was in America I did some research in their libraries. I was supposed to be doing research on my role, but I couldn’t resist the temptation of knowing all the meaning behind the mystery. Turns out it’s hard to find actual flower dictionaries— I mean, I’ve been told there are a lot of flower dictionaries online, but you know me, I’m a technophobe and besides, some of the sources aren’t really that credible….” You nodded, recalling the rare moments when someone actually bothered to look up what the flowers actually meant, but got it all wrong because they got it from some amateur blog that didn’t bother to do enough research.

“But then I found out that flowers also have different meanings in different dictionaries!” he exclaimed, putting a palm to his forehead as he recalled the exasperating memory. “Not to mention that a lot of flowers look alike. I even had to go to a florist’s there just to ask what some of the flowers were. Eventually I got all their names and all their meanings, and it was just a matter of piecing everythingtogether.

“The day before I flew back to London, I holed up in my hotel room to find your message in the third and fourth bouquets you gave me last Valentine’s. When I was finally able to decode your message, I remember just sitting in silence for an hour, just absolutely stunned. It dawned on me how you were trying to tell me the same thing without fail for —what, six years?— and I never even noticed! And to think you gave me gloxinias on the night we met! You’re a tricky one, you are,” he said as he smiled at you, and you beamed up at him.

“So…?” you asked him, not quite sure where you had stolen your courage from. 

“Can’t you tell?” he asked, and you shook your head. Everything led you to a reasonable conclusion, yet you refused to assume anything. Assumptions, as you had learnt in the past, were prohibited in the field of love. He let out a chuckle, amused by how you refused to suspend your disbelief. 

“Can’t tell what?” you asked him.

“Look around you.”

As you did what he asked you to, you realised that you were so distracted by George that— very much unlike you— you failed to notice the flowers around you. You were surrounded by a sea of pink, peach, and orange flowers, and they were everywhere. They were all around the room, there were ceiling installations with cascading blooms in orbs that hung from the ceiling, and even made up a wall of flowers behind George. You squinted as you tried your best to get a better glimpse at the blooms, until you realised that they comprised the arrangements on the table as well.

You studied the flowers until you recognised what they were.

Ambrosias.

‘ _ Your love is reciprocated.’ _

Stunned, you ripped your eyes away from the flowers to look at him. He smiled at your astonishment, before wagging his eyebrows at you. “Have you seen the bouquet?” he asked.

You looked down on your lap and noticed the white tritonias that peeked between the roses that were just shy of fully blooming.

‘ _ I love you, and I’m yours, whatever the weather.’ _

You looked up again, tears streaming down on your face. Just when you were ready to give the last sliver of hope, here was George, coming back into your life in full force.

“Do you… still love me?” he asked, the smile disappearing from his face as it suddenly came to him that maybe, just maybe, all the love had waned in the past months. 

But he couldn’t be more wrong. As the flowers sang their meanings and beamed at you in their warm colours, everything came rushing back to you. That first seed of love that took root in your heart the night you met; the unyielding, never-ceasing tempests that poured since that Valentines and almost drowned the love to death; and now the triumph of it all, that the love in heart was able to see its sun again and bask in its warm, nurturing glow. It was too much for you, and for a while you couldn’t stop crying.

George just sat there in front of you, his brow furrowed in worry. You smiled at him, the tears not yet stopping as you tried to grasp the reality that the only man you had ever truly loved actually loved you back.

“Of course I do, George,” you said, your voice thick with tears as you hoped that he understood what you said.

“My sweet girl,” he said, taking your hands in his, rubbing the backs of them with his thumbs. The motion soothed you until your tears stopped. 

“I love you,” George whispered. No more hidden messages now, only pure, unequivocal words. With those three words, all the chance and randomness and chaos was finally gone, swept aside by that quiet yet bold declaration. “I love you and I always will.”

* * *

Once you had stopped crying, you spent the whole night eating dinner and talking about everything, just like you did before. Before you realised the time, your friend walked into the room in pyjamas and a cereal box, telling you both that it was morning and you had to leave. True enough, the sun began to peek through the horizon, and you both stepped out of the restaurant.

You looked at him in the early morning light, looking absolutely radiant. Taking your hand in his, he held you close as you both walked home. As you turned the corner to your shop, the breeze carried the scent of roses from somewhere, and he kissed you by the front of your shop, where your story first began.

Love, at long last, had blossomed between the both of you, and it was all because you both learnt how to speak in the language of flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> For this chapter, many thanks to Ayesha, for helping me ascertain that my initial plan for the chapter involved an act that, if committed by The Reader, would not have qualified for the justifying circumstance of an act done in defence of a stranger.


End file.
